Pitchfork Day 1 wrap-up: Feist, Japandroids, Big K.R.I.T., rain

Here’s an hour-by-hour rundown of how Day 1 of the seventh annual Pitchfork Music Festival went down Friday in Union Park, with contributions from my colleague Bob Gendron (BG) and yours truly (GK):

3:15 p.m.: Midafternoon downpour dissipates. The gates should’ve opened 15 minutes ago, but thousands wait on Ashland Avenue as crews mop the stages. Puddles stand in a few spots on the field, but otherwise the grounds look playable. (GK)

3:45 p.m.: The music finally kicks in. We’re 25 minutes behind schedule, but considering the way things looked an hour ago, we’ll take it. Chicago co-ed quintet Outer Minds delivers spooky, tambourine-inflected harmonies, with trebly 12-string guitar and Vox organ drone. The bass often jumps to the top of the mix to play lead. As an added bonus, the band takes a page from the Naked Raygun manual on band-audience relations and tosses confetti-poppers, soap-bubble containers and T-shirts to the fans. See? It pays to arrive early. (GK)

3:52 p.m.: A few hundred fans gather in front of the Red Stage, and at least that amount wait outside in entrance lines snaking around the corner of Lake and Ashland. The showers not only delayed the start; mercifully, they also lowered temperatures and tamped down the softball-infield dirt that normally creates mini-dust storms on dry days. (BG)

3:57 p.m.: Lower Dens plays against a backdrop of black clouds, the rain having passed--for now. The moody background suits the Baltimore band's unhurried droning, murky German-rock propulsion and half-intelligible warbling. The quartet, which professes interest in transhumanism--the concept of technology enhancing human abilities--relies heavily on atmospherics. Androgynous leader Jana Hunter twirls knobs on a Korg processor; her mates get on their knees to monitor feedback and deploy effects pedals. Visually, it isn't much to see, and the presentation seemingly calls out for a pair of headphones and a solitary setting. (BG)

4:54 p.m.: Willis Earl Beal stands on a metal folding chair and wields his microphone stand as a bayonet, lifting it over his head and twisting it side to side. He barks words, spouting lyrics as if a preacher delivering a hell-and-brimstone sermon. It's an engaging and ominous display. The local singer/artist possesses a veteran gravedigger's worn timbre and claims songs that echo like desperate streetcorner serenades hurdling down back alleys late at night. Dressed in a self-designed shirt that reads "Nobody," Beal's persona is anything but anonymous. He writhes on the floor, shouts about banging on walls, tells about living in a one-room shack and leans his torso at an array of uncomfortable angles. All the while, he's backed solely by tracks that spin on a reel-to-reel tape machine. The jack-of-all-trades vocalist is all grit and desire, but it's not all fierce. Beal also showcases a warm soulful croon and hits falsetto notes with ease. Yet it's the haunted, gravelly alter ego that leaves the biggest impression. That, and modesty. "I used to ride my bicycle up and down Ashland," he states, almost in disbelief that he's got the stage to himself. (BG)

5:07 p.m.: It’s the second time I’ve seen Willis Beal Beal in several months, and this time the overriding impression is the physicality of his performance – the rigorous, highly stylized, slow-motion dance moves, the intensity of his delivery, the way his lungs heave between songs. As a one-man show, he’s riveting, the way he uses simple props – a cape, his microphone cord, the mike stand, a bottle, a belt – to heighten the drama. It’s a got a hint of the ritualized pacing of Kabuki theater. And then there’s the stage patter. It’s not like any stage patter I’ve ever heard. He is self-critical, self-deprecating, self-aware, self-confident and always thoughtful, often humorous. After a particularly moving “Swing on Low,” a secular hymn that brings him to his knees, Beal says, “I am over-indulgent and sappy. … I take pride in it.” He should. (GK)

5:05 p.m.: Olivia Tremor Control races to complete "The Holiday 1,2,3," the members strumming every available stringed instrument in a fantastic flurry. Aside from the spontaneous eruption, the reunited Louisiana ensemble -- part of the Elephant 6 collective that energized psychedelic indie-rock in the ‘90s --appears to have tumbled out of an old attic in Europe. Such is the well-preserved time warp these crusty-looking dudes and their patchwork quilt of kaleidoscopic transmissions evoke. Gypsy, folk and psychedelic elements streak the fare, and when the feeling arises, horns and violin enter the fray. Dreams and visions figure heavily into the narratives, as do remnants of jangly 1960s garage rock. Filled with glee, the group looks to be performing as much for itself as the crowd. When the set abruptly ends, one gets the sense the shambolic jamboree continues backstage, or in some nearby low-rent apartment. (BG)

5:48 p.m.: As he tokes on a blunt, A$AP Rocky requests fans throw marijuana onstage for his massive crew. Suddenly, in what might mark a first in Pitchfork Festival history, a small scuffle breaks out in the audience. The New York rapper issues a call for peace. With a gold grille covering his teeth, braids and backwards hat, the MC doesn't resemble a typical peacekeeper. Indeed, at times during his rain-soaked set, it feels as if mayhem might break out amid the jumping hype men and crowd-energizing chants. Hopping around, A$AP Rocky vacillates between hardcore, bass-bombing anthems and slow jams, yet the subject matter--and direct hooks--remain consistent. Boasts of sexual prowess, smoking reefer, outsized egos, swigging liquor and smoking pot feed into the colorful frontman's oversized swagger on tunes like "Get Lit" and "Wassup Prod," defeating occasional technical hiccups and dead time. Ultimately, however, he would be better served without such a large posse and the need to hear his name uttered ad infinitum. (BG)

5:50 p.m.: Tim Hecker couldn’t be any more staid. The Montreal electronic composer hunches over his laptop and mixing board as though he were a chemist fine-tuning an experiment. The rain is back, and it’s drenching the audience. The music provides an appropriate soundtrack, conjuring choppy, slow-moving waves amid thick static hum. At times it sounds like Hecker’s crosscurrents are stuck between two radio frequencies, each fighting to be heard. He also benefits from some extra bottom end drifting over quite audibly from the A$AP Rocky set to the north. Who says sound bleed between two stages is a bad thing? (GK)

6:35 p.m.: “We brought this weather with us from Vancouver,” Japandroids’ Brian King jokes, as he peers out at thousands of rain-drenched fans. The two-man band is, as usual, amped up to the point where King is talking so fast his words dissolve into gibberish. The songs come fast and furious too, as the duo seems determined to cram their usual 90-minute set into half the time. Within a song, drummer Dave Prowse has broken his kit. “Is there a spare kick pedal?” No, sorry, Dave, I left mine at home. It makes for a decent but less-than-spectacular set, cutting out some of the nuanced melancholy that crept into the songs on their latest album, “Celebration Rock.” Still, I never tire of hearing “The House that Heaven Built,” one of the year’s best singles. And -- wouldn’t you know it – the rain finally stops, and the sun parts the gray. (GK)

6:43 p.m.: Where's the rainbow? Sun joins the steady rain during Big K.R.I.T.'s memorable set, as the slinky Mississippi rapper does more with a microphone and deejay than A$AP Rocky accomplished with a massive group and dense mixes. Big K.R.I.T. honors his heritage ("Cool 2 Be Southern"), adores car culture ("Rotation") and revels in regional pride ("Country [Expletive]"), and when he utters a certain profane term, he sounds a lot like Clay Davis exaggerating the vowels of the same word on "The Wire." His flash doesn't come via braggadocio but by way of deft wordplay, creative rhymes, everyday observations and laser precision. The MC's eyes stare down the crowd as if they're prey, and his arms remain in perpetual motion, reacting to minimalist beats and trunk-rattling bass. Big K.R.I.T. puts a fresh spin on old-school tradition--there's even a "scratch" solo--enamored with do-it-yourself skill and hard grooves. When he spits lines, you can practically see the metal rims on a low-rider spinning. His only hurdle? Sound bleed from the Japandroids. If the rapper stops, the throbbing noise from across the way acts as a very tempting lure. Blame the disappointingly sparse crowd for failing to provide a cushion. (BG)

7:46 p.m.: Motel rooms are expensive. The lawn will do just fine, thank you. Yep, a couple is in the throes of a serious make-out session, laying on a blanket and oblivious to everyone staring at their public display of affection. Five feet away, an older gentleman pulls his partner away and instructs her to stop staring. Several photographers capture the scene for posterity. No, it's not that Clams Casino makes very sexual music. Rather, the electronic artist, currently in demand for his production duties, proves to be a bore onstage. He remains honed in on his mixing board and computers, barely acknowledging the horde listening to his blend of chillwave, ambient and lo-fi instrumentals. The artist known to his mother as Mike Volpe occasionally livens up the pace and briefly entertains a dance sequence. However, he mostly keeps the music laid-back, the innocuous sonic wallpaper accommodating the throngs of smokers in attendance. (BG)

7:57 p.m.: Dirty Projectors, a six-piece New York band with some highly acclaimed albums in its resume, demonstrates seriously accomplished chops during a set full of art-pop songs. Drums putter, background vocalists create a dense tapestry of harmony, guitars weave oblique lines. The mix occasionally suggests funk, Afro-pop, R&B or chamber pop without really becoming any of them. As admirable as these elements are in isolation, they never quite coalesce into truly great songs. It all sounds too much like work, an exercise in fussiness. (GK)

8:50 p.m. Feedback in a Feist set? The singer brought it raining down herself with a skronky guitar solo, harkening back to her punk roots in Canada, or perhaps her stint as a sock puppeteer with rabble-rousing disco-punk Peaches. When she sings “I Feel it All,” she breaks it down to pure rhythm – the stomping feet and handclaps of her bandmates and three backing singers. Tambourines and assorted percussion instruments keep feet moving and heads bobbing across the lawn in front of the stage. Later, there’s even a big arena-rock moment with waving hands and an audience sing-along during “Comfort Me.” Yes, the image of couples slow-dancing during a Feist concert is a given, but this set also has them pumping fists and occasionally ducking, lest they get nailed by some of that guitar shrapnel the singer fires off. (GK)

9:04 p.m.: Ooh, those lights sure are pretty. Buzzed-about Montreal duo Purity Ring turns the stage into the equivalent of an outside patio at a posh Chicago restaurant by illuminating what resemble honeycombs placed on long sticks. The translucent devices change color and respond to the pace of the beats; the group's electronic drumpads even twinkle when struck by percussionist/programmer Corin Roddick. Free spirit front woman Megan James croons in exotic tones, her dreamy pixie-esque singing and high-pitched asides heavily filtered and largely unintelligible. She's more concerned about feel than clarity. A few tugs on her dress and intermittent strikes of a lone bass drum comprise her other responsibilities. On song after song, glitchy rhythms and drawn-out low-frequency waves slither up to her vocals. Comparisons to Bjork are in order, and while the band lacks the Icelandic icon's diversity, the collision of ‘80s synth pop and club-derived contemporary electronics brings the evening to a calm close. Purity Ring is the equivalent of a mellow drink at last call, refreshing enough to satiate nerves but not so strong as to invite you back onto the dancefloor. "I think this is the most amount of people we've played in front of," James states, finally addressing the crowd, before resuming, lights beckoning her as they flicker above. (BG)

9:20 p.m.: "That's it?" asks a fan as Purity Ring exit. Others express the same sentiment. Indeed, it's an early end, leaving Feist as the last option. The premature finish begs the question: Shouldn't headliners at least have one album's worth of material to their credit? Purity Ring's debut doesn't see release until late July. (BG)

9:45 p.m.: Feist calls it a night after 75 minutes on stage. As she did last year when she performed at the Riviera, she ignores what for many is her most popular song, “1234.” Clearly, she’s decided to give that song a nice long rest, if not retire it for good. No matter, her set is just fine without it. (GK)

Even as gray skies, muggy atmosphere and rain made for a bleak opening Friday to the Pitchfork Music Festival in Union Park, the crowd waiting to enter the event was thousands deep along Ashland Avenue. Inside, puddles formed on the field and crews urgently mopped the stages. The music would...

The Chicago Cubs on Tuesday sought City Hall permission to expand construction hours at Wrigley Field, with bleacher work falling well behind schedule on the team's $375 million ballpark renovation project.